


how your flesh now is crying out for more

by x (ordinary)



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: A Legitimate Use for Dental Wax, Broken Neck, CW: vomit mention but no actual puking, Consensual Violence, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Literally Choking on Cock, M/M, Octane has a broken tooth. no further questions, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Respawning, Rough Oral Sex, suffocation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-01-23 12:42:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21320368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ordinary/pseuds/x
Summary: It’s not often that he seeks out Octavio, but when needs must, Caustic is not often a man who denies himself of his desires.Or: Octane gets a better use for that mouth of his.
Relationships: Caustic | Alexander Nox/Octane | Octavio Silva
Comments: 9
Kudos: 42





	how your flesh now is crying out for more

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another tumblr prompt that grew a few legs, then a few more legs, then became a bit of a centipede! Is it also half prelude, as is my nature? Yes, yes it is.
> 
> Title is from [Siames - The Wolf](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lX44CAz-JhU)
> 
> As always, please be sure to read the tags and proceed with caution! My content focuses on how Caustic and Octane navigate their respective desires to kill and be killed in erotic ways or otherwise. 
> 
> Lore on how respawning and how everyone ends up a-okay afterwards is in the end note!

It’s not often that he seeks out Octavio, but when needs must, Caustic is not a man who denies himself of his desires. What he wants, he acquires. What he _yearns _for, he procures. 

This, as of late, has spilled from over from his professional life and into his personal; it's difficult to resist when his research and his _appetites_ can be sated in one breath. He's always been one to measure twice and cut once. 

Not that he would ever reveal the extent of it-- even without confirmation of his suspicions, Octavio is truly insufferable. It's not unusual for him to trail after Caustic to paw at his belongings or his person with the singular intention to provoke, an ever smiling specter that seeks to wind between his legs like a needy feline vying for attention. He prattles nonstop, apathetic to whether or not Caustic is actually listening-- and worse, his desire to get the last word (words, sentences, _paragraphs_) in now extends beyond "bedroom" activities and into the mess hall, the training range, the dropship at the _top_ of his _lungs_\--

Yes.

Insufferable is the correct descriptor.

Worse, establishing _rules_ for Octavio simply drives him to break them, to knowingly make eye contact as he drops a vial of corrosive liquid onto the linoleum floor just to see what happens, even if the consequence is having his face pushed into it like a dog being ineffectually punished. Even the pain of acid eating away at his face before Caustic puts him out of his misery isn't enough to deter his bad behavior. Only the complete withdrawal of contact brings him to heel.

Caustic loathes it, in no small part because it means that many of his own experiments and desires grind to a halt without Octavio's presence. Other test subjects have their use, but he's invested so many resources in knowing the shape of his form, the sound of his agony, and the taste of his demise. 

Everyone has their vices, and that wretched boy is his.

Caustic's lightly sleeping hunger rumbles to life as his thoughts stray towards _potential_, the smallest of flames growing into a blaze that licks at his belly. He sighs, setting down his datapad. His patience is running thin, and after "cutting him off" for a week, the sleeping dog that is his depravity will lie no longer.

He shrugs out of his labcoat, hanging it up on a hook on his way out of his laboratory. The door closes behind him with a soft, pneumatic hiss, and it is thunderous in the still. Many of the hall's lights are dark; it must be past closing time for those less _devoted_ to their work. Caustic glances at his watch; half past one. Late enough that most would have retired to their quarters, and if he were not in need of satiation, Caustic would have likely retired as well. The ache that comes with a long day's work makes itself known in his back as he rolls his shoulders with a grimace.

An evening of minimal exertion, then. They both enjoy _the struggle_, but Caustic is creative. There are ways to get what they both desire without an out and out fight.

Not being aware of your limits is for the foolish. Caustic is well aware of his age, and today he is _tired_.

He makes his way towards the rec room on the ground floor, hypothesizing that Octavio would be inflicting his presence upon it. Given the hour, there were only a few options, and fortunately (or _un_fortunately), Caustic was attuned enough to the boy's habits to make more than an educated guess.

Clearly, he was right. The hallway outside of the rec room shakes with the force of the bass, and a muffled racket is barely contained by its doors.

Before he enters, Caustic does not hold himself back from a beleaguered roll of the eyes, pinching his forehead between his brows. 

The things that he endures.

He pushes into the room, lip curling in distaste beneath his respirator as the blaring music and clashing sounds of a game assault his ears at maximum volume. The large screen-- generally reserved for movies-- has Octavio's favorite simulation plastered across it. Despite there being _numerous_ perfectly serviceable chairs and couches scattered around the room, Octavio has instead opted to lay on his back, legs propped up over the coffee table. They tap arithmetically against the surface as he plays his game _upside down,_ surrounded by a veritable swarm of empty cans of energy drinks and bags of chips.

Clearly Caustic wasn't the only one who'd spent all day on a task, albeit a highly unproductive one.

He allows himself a moment of appreciation at the fact that Octavio's attire has an abundance of crop-tops, as he's far too engrossed in his game to preen at the acknowledgment. Green eyes skate across olive skin, catching on the scars that are and the scars that would-_be_ if it were not for the simple act of respawning. His whole _body_ is a canvas that is _his_ to use, one freely and eagerly offered to be debauched.

To be destroyed.

Caustic takes in a deep breath, nostrils flaring as he sets his plan in motion. A familiar green and black computer tower is set up close to where Octavio is settled in, whirring for its life. He grabs the power cord on its back and wrenches it free. The cacophony ceases immediately. 

"Hey!" Octavio yelps, indignant, twisting in a flailing knot of limbs both metal and flesh. “_Qué carajo,_ man! I was about to break my fucking _record!" _ He sounds so utterly scandalized and _betrayed _that it makes Caustic smile.

"I have a more useful endeavor for your time than a mere _simulation_."

For a second, Caustic's very presence seems to baffle him. He squints, blinking once before recognition crosses his face like a bolt of lightning striking home. His face transforms into a mischievous gaze and a sly, sly grin. He inches closer to Caustic to throw both arms around one of his legs with exaggerated adoration, controller tossed aside without a second glance. "Ayyy, _amigo! _What you doing all the way down here, eh?" He noses against Caustic's thigh with a loud cackle. "You finally realize I'm irresistible?"

Caustic snorts, not bothering to try and pry Octavio's hands free. It would be a futile endeavor embarrassing for the both of them. "Quite the opposite. I am merely no longer in the mood to... _deny_ myself."

It's been a particularly trying week, Octavio's disobedience aside. The loss of two long-term projects in the span of 72 hours through no one's fault but his own has put quite the damper on his mood and productivity _both-- _Failure was taxing, even for a man such as himself. All the more reason for a session with his muse. 

Octavio beams, flashing him a thumbs up from below. "Sicckkk. No more cold shoulder!"

"Correct," he says, winding his fingers into short hair, humming a little to himself as he strokes it. A gentle precursor to inevitable violence. "Loathe as I am to reward your impertinence and impatience."

Octavio pushes up into the touch-- he truly _is _a feline-- before rearranging himself so that he can cross his legs, holding onto his ankles to keep himself still. His leg still bounces. "You know," he replies absentmindedly, "I already forgot what it was I was impatient about!" He smiles, not bothering to conceal the fact that he's lying through his crooked, broken teeth. "_Besiiides_. Don't you wanna fast forward and just get this party started already?"

"If you insist." Caustic smiles beneath his half mask and tightens his grip in Octavio's hair into something cruel, holding on to bedraggled strands of black and green away from the root to ensure that it will _hurt_. Doing so has the added benefit of requiring less force to ensure compliance. He drags the boy away from his _mess _andtowards a couch, spindly fingers clinging to his thick wrist all the while with a desperate squeeze. The ensuing indignant screeching is melody to his ears as Octavio clings to his wrist in an attempt to scramble along with tangled legs.

Caustic deposits him in a heap onto the floor.

"_Mierda_, dude," he grunts, scrubbing at his sore scalp with a groan. "You know you could just, like, point at where you want me, right?" 

It's a token complaint, and one he doesn't even mean, at that. It's hardly worth acknowledging.

Instead, Caustic takes a seat on the couch he's pulled them towards, leaning back against the cushions to watch Octavio's every move like a hawk. A thin sheen of sweat breaks out across his temple, and Caustic is smugly sure of how very little of that is from the brief moment of pain itself. Instead, it is an awareness of the promise that accompanies the pain. 

The Pavlovian response is a truly remarkable thing.

Octavio's own hunger rears its head in the form of dilated pupils and a lick of his chops, tongue catching against the broken edge of his buck tooth. Caustic watches the bob of his unblemished throat, the twitch of his fingers as he struggles to restrain himself before he dives forward. His legs creak as he arranges himself for the long haul, settling onto his knees before planting his hands on Caustic's own. His nails dig in like railroad spikes.

Caustic drags his fingers through black hair, probing unkindly at the tender spot. He smiles beneath his respirator as he feels the wince. "You know how this ends," he says, and it is a warning rather than a question. Their paths converge at a single destination, careening towards the event horizon at light speed so that they might knock upon death's door.

Octavio flaps one hand irreverently. "Blah, blah, blah, dude. Do we really gotta do this every time?" He rolls his eyes, turning his face upwards in a mockery of supplication. "Hurry up and kill me already, _amigo_. I'm getting _bored_."

Caustic yanks Octavio's head backwards, eyes narrowing. "Getting ahead of ourselves, are we?" Without letting go, he reaches into his pocket to produce a small plastic case. He pops it open to reveal tiny, translucent tubes of wax laid against each other, the sort used by those still barbaric enough to straighten their teeth the old fashioned way, with _braces_. Barbaric, but in this moment, he is thankful for them.

"I won't have your mouth wreaking havoc while you're half out of your mind," he says dispassionately, carving off a sliver with fingernail, pressing it into a disk. It's a familiar act by now, a ritual in its own right. "Open."

Octavio cooperates as dramatically as possible, opening his mouth with an unnecessary "ahhh" as he bares his teeth so that Caustic can blunt the jagged edge of his front tooth with the wax. He rubs his thumb against it, satisfied that it's been blunted enough to make his mouth _useful_.

Caustic curls his fingers so that they hook behind Octavio's lower front teeth, tugging him forward with a jerk. He wants him within easy reach.

The boy smiles around his fingers before they're pulled free. He presses the palm of his heel against Caustic's crotch, rubbing with firm pressure with a wink. "Is that a nox grenade in your pants, or are you just happy to see me?"

The cheekiness earns him an easy backhand, and Caustic revels in how his eyelids shutter, in how the print starts to bloom across his olive skin. 

He takes to violence so _well_. It's remarkable.

"Open," he says again, but this time it's huskier, with more _intent_. He cooperates in an instant, eagerly letting his ragged lips part wide for two of Caustic's fingers. His jaw hangs loose as they scissor in his mouth, pressing down on his tongue until they bump up against his soft palate. He has no choice but to swallow around his gags, chest heaving with every shudder as Caustic lazily thrusts them at an unpredictable pace. Octavio's nails dig into Caustic's thighs like railway spikes as he refuses to concede defeat despite the risk that he might retch.

"If you vomit, I will still expect you to perform," he warns, but Octavio shakes his head in a quick, aborted motion, whining around Caustic's hand. Tears prick at the corner of his eyes, and Caustic once more marvels at how little it takes to disassemble him now that he knows all of Octavio's tells.

He is a beautiful disaster. He is _his_. 

Caustic exhales sharply through his nose. He's harder than before; the sight of Octavio struggling to breathe sets his cravings roaring to life like a match dropped on gasoline. No one has ever made flirting with death look quite so... appetizing.

He is a shark circling blood in the water. He is a shark whose bleeding prey is crawling in between his teeth-- 

Time to take advantage of it.

He curls his fingers so that they hook behind Octavio's lower front teeth, tugging him forward until his face presses against Caustic's gut, cushioned there as he pants for breath. Octavio has said in the past-- to much chagrin-- that he would be perfectly serviceable as a pillow, a sentiment that he was sure to repeat if Caustic doesn't silence him first. He pats his thigh in beckoning-- like one might to a dog-- coaxing Octane's head down until his open mouth drags against the zipper of his slacks, and finally, _finally_, he lets the boy work.

Octavio is as eager as he _always_ is, ready to thrust himself into whatever danger has been offered to him on a platter. He handily undoes the button on Caustic's slacks and tugs down the zipper, gaze riveted to Caustic's cock as he fishes it out. He genuinely bites his lower lip again and shivers under Caustic's hand, red painted across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.

Nuzzling his face against Caustic's length, Octavio looks utterly at home. He takes the base in hand with a warm, rough touch, licking stripes along its underside before he wraps his lips around the leaking head. Caustic hisses as he does, the heat undeniably _good_. It is not unusual for him to... _neglect_ his own arousal in favor of observation; he takes considerable satisfaction from watching Octavio approach his own demise that he can sometimes..._forget_ about his body's baser desires. His obsession is, at times, single-minded, but the result is this. This _need_ that bubbles up and makes itself known, this _need_ to lash out and fulfill both of his appetites.

The way Octavio works is almost obscenely loud; he is a sloppy lover, spit already slick against his chin as he pushes himself further and further down Caustic's cock, entirely focused on his task at hand. The rest of Caustic might as well be nonexistent to him, chasing his own bliss through the act of service. It's perfect, except--

"No hands," Caustic drawls in a gravely reminder, bucking his hips upwards at a bad time to intentionally make him choke. Pulling off with a wheezing cough, Octavio wipes his mouth clean with the back of his hand. He relinquishes his hold, putting both hands up in mock defeat. "Yeah yeah, _cabrón,_" he says, voice already hoarse, "now you gonna let a man work or not?" Sarcasm or not, the boy looks like he's _starving, _gaze fixed on his half-finished work. 

Caustic has the self control to put Octavio through his paces, to draw him out until he works himself up into a fever pitch. Until he is a frantic animal throwing itself against the bars of its cage. 

He takes hold of Octavio's head with both hands, moving him to his whims. He whines brokenly as he finally gets to swallow Caustic down again, keeping his hands behind his back to finally, finally _obey_. His lean shoulders flex as he tightens his grip on himself, eyes falling closed again as Caustic _uses_ his mouth, even as the rest of his body protests it.

Octavio keeps gagging when Caustic pulls him down too hard, too tight, tongue working its underside as he tries to swallow around it. Caustic is aware that he is considerably above average-- especially in regard to thickness-- and he supposes it is a point of pride to witness the evidence of it in Octavio's struggle. He has always had difficulty deepthroating, and Caustic on the whole finds it charming. He tries _so hard, _so desperate to _fulfill his purpose _that it satisfies something primal in him. 

Arousal thrums through Caustic's body like a live wire throwing sparks. He lets go of Octavio just long enough to fumble at his mask, to yank it off so that he can suck in huge gulps of air unhindered by filters. His cock throbs as he sheaths it fully into that hot, tight throat, apathetic to his convulsions. He laughs, breathless and low, waiting for him to break. It feels so _good_ to hear those wordless protests, to see the way the wet spot that's formed on Octavio's pants as he nearly doubles over, stomach twitching. He can't keep his hands in place anymore; they fly up to wrap around Caustic's thick wrists as he tries to pull them off, jaw wavering, as if he might bite.

Caustic brings his thumbs to the hinges of Octavio's jaw, applying blunt pressure to keep them open. It will bruise. 

"I have a fondness for asphyxiation," he says with a breathless groan, "but it is often... _impersonal_." 

Octavio whimpers in response, frenetic as they vibrate against his cock. Caustic lets his eyes fall closed to bask in the feeling. He feels so very _alive_ as he fights to keep the boy's head in place as he starts to thrash in earnest. His legs scramble against the floor with a horrible sound, and his grip on Caustic's wrists gain new strength. 

"Blood in the lungs feels so different, does it not?" he rasps, releasing his hold on without warning. He watches as Octavio pulls himself backwards with an inarticulate scream, hanging on to one of Caustic's arm like a lifeline. He coughs so violently that Caustic is vaguely concerned he might have cracked a rib. He sobs in an ugly way, crying in earnest as he buries his head into Caustic's thigh, high off of adrenaline and fear and a sick sort of arousal.

He gingerly cups Octavio's face, red and slick from tears and spit and snot. "Blood in the lungs feels different, does it not?" Caustic turns his face this way and that to examine the damage. The capillaries have burst in his left eye, bloodshot more than the other. "It is... an inevitability. You can simply _surrender_ yourself to it." He is aware that Octavio is far, far away right now, too out of it to take in any of Caustic's words, let alone comprehend them, let alone _respond_ to them. He is still wild-eyed and squirrelly, quivering as he comes down from a high. "You let go. I observe." 

He smiles, sharp and bare. 

"The principles are the same. You'll see that soon."

Caustic is patient, although his arousal is not. He lazily strokes himself even as Octavio struggles to gain control of himself in his lap, noting with no small amount of smugness that the boy had _come _in his pants amidst the struggle. 

When his crying abates, Octavio is left wheezing with ragged breaths. Caustic strokes at his temples with slow, steady touches, so gentle in comparison to the abuse he'd just endured. 

"Come back to me," he murmurs, listening to Octavio babble in broken fragments that are more Spanish than English that grow less and less frantic as the seconds tick by. It's how Caustic knows he's done his job well-- pushing Octavio to his limits and beyond has always been his goal. To give him that final shove so that he can topple off that cliff and dash himself on the rocks as he desires.

"_Mierda, eso duele,"_ Octavio finally groans, letting go of Caustic's arm, squeezing his thigh briefly as he sits himself back up, shaking his head to clear it. He rubs at his throat, as though he could still feel Caustic's cock still in his throat.

With Caustic's help, he pulls himself up so that he can straddle the other man's lap, metal knees digging into the fabric. 

"Holy _shit_," he breathes, "that was so fucking _sick_ dude!" Octavio giddily leans forward to steal a kiss before Caustic can complain about it, grinning because he knows he's getting away with something he shouldn't be. Caustic's hands are too full to stop him anyway; one braces itself on Octavio's hip, and the other is still busy jerking himself off. Octavio giggles against his lips; it is ticklish against his mustache. He tastes like overly sweetened energy drinks, and he lets himself be drawn into the kissing as the boy reaches down to push his hands away so that he can take over.

Caustic tightens his grip on a slim hip before sliding it up Octavio's chest before it slots into place at the base of his neck. He gets a flinch in return, but it only makes the kiss more desperate. He whines into Caustic's mouth as he pulls him along towards orgasm, panting open mouthed against him.

"Come on, _amigo_," he murmurs, hoarse and strained, pressing his neck into Caustic's waiting hand. "Come on, come on, come _on_, I got _mine_, it's your _turn_\--" 

It drags a guttural groan from within Caustic out and into the open as he tightens his grip on Octavio's windpipe. He could put him out of fast with a grip over the carotid; it would put him under swiftly, but that's not what he wants. 

That's not what Caustic wants, either. He snarls wordlessly, heaving as he bucks up into Octavio's clever touch, bringing his other hand up so that he can apply more pressure against that fragile, fragile throat of his.

"_Fascinating_," he marvels, drinking in the sight of Octavio's skin as it fades from red to ashen. Caustic mourns that he cannot last much longer, his orgasm creeping up on him like an ever-rising tide. Octavio gasps for breath with little gagging noises, caressing the head of Caustic's cock one last time with a clever twist and that's _it_. The culmination of their evening arrives with sparks behind his eyes, teased out by a knowing hand and sights and _sounds_ of Octavio's suffering as he dies. He comes with a broken groan, spilling over Octavio's hands as he makes eye contact _one last time_ before snapping his neck.

His corpse vanishes from Caustic's hand without a trace, whisked away to be resurrected in a new body come morning-- the Syndicate takes care of its own, even if Octavio's off-hour deaths were in no way sanctioned.

Caustic has to laugh, relaxing back against the couch in his post-coital bliss. He reaches for his discarded mask, tugging it back on. In the morning, his damaged lungs won't appreciate his stint without it, but he has no regrets. The ferocious hunger in him has been sated, the fever-pitch of desire slowly cooling as he regains his composure.

The silence is deafening; now that he's caught his breath, all that remains is the low buzz of the projector screen that's barely loud enough to be white noise. He tucks his spent cock back into his pants, wiping his hands off on the couch before pushing himself up, body protesting a little in the process. He is, on the whole, too old for this-- for chasing down young men with death wishes, for chasing victory and _enlightenment _in a game to the death on the daily. The fact that they respawn is irrelevant when you're already 48, when your body has already begun to degrade before the Syndicate made a copy of you in your entirety. He is in stasis, now, in a perpetual boot loop of live-die-live again, but that doesn't mean his fresh body is without flaws.

Caustic shuts the light off in the rec room, apathetic to the mess, as janitorial will be by in a few short hours regardless. He coughs as he makes his way towards his quarters, in desperate need of a shower to cleanse himself of the stench of sweat and sex. The respawn room is along the way, as is Octavio's, and his gaze lingers on both. The techs may take pity on him and bring Octavio back earlier, but he's never been there for a resurrection nor will he ever. It holds little interest to him; Caustic has no desire to witness such vulnerability, it would not be appreciated in return-- a relief for them both.

Tomorrow, they will take on the challenges of the ring either with or against each other, and the only evidence that they are linked on an inextricable, near-molecular level will be the heat of their gaze, the cruelty of their kills, and the fabric of the memories that have yet to be made.

Beneath his mask, Caustic smiles, wide and genuine.

**Author's Note:**

> It's funny; I tend to think Caustic is actually much more tender (in his own way) than Octane is, and I hope that I've shown some of that fondness here. He views Octane as his experiment and lab partner in one go, and is very possessive of that connection they share. He is still, of course, an absolutely batshit murder man, but there is a scientific method to the madness.
> 
> He knows and uses Octane's real name as he thinks of it flaying some of his flashiness away, to prove to them both that this is what Octane is beneath it. The same is not true in return as Caustic has fully forsaken Alexander in every capacity; Doctor Caustic is who he is, and who he gets.
> 
> \--
> 
> qué carajo = what the fuck  
cabrón = varied by region, but in this context it's basically "bastard"  
mierda, eso duele = holy shit that hurts
> 
> \--
> 
> Catch me at [dangerjunkie](https://dangerjunkie.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!  
If you're interested in my lore, check out [The Apex Games Rule Book](https://dangerjunkie.tumblr.com/post/186314846212/apex-legends-rule-book). It details how respawning works, how bodies and minds are stored through repeated lives, how death boxes work, etc.


End file.
